


An Investment in Friendship

by ladyknightanka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Abuse, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyknightanka/pseuds/ladyknightanka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life after the alpha pack's arrival is difficult for Isaac. Boyd and Erica are gone. Derek and Peter are always at each other's throats, literally. Scott, meanwhile, still refuses to join the Hale pack. When Isaac rescues an abused puppy and takes it to Doctor Deaton's, however, he is thrown together again with Scott, who makes it clear that he still cares about Isaac, whatever else is going on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Investment in Friendship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravyn_ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravyn_ashling/gifts).



> Written for the [Teen Wolf Reverse Bang](http://twreversebang.livejournal.com). Thanks so much to [Cerberusia](http://cerberusia.livejournal.com/) and [Emmyxogast](http://emmyxogast.livejournal.com/) for beta reading this, and to the mods for creating such a fun challenge.
> 
> My biggest thanks, of course, goes to [Ravyn_Ashling](http://ravyn-ashling.livejournal.com/), who drew [the gorgeous piece that inspired this](http://ravynashling.tumblr.com/post/40219874651/teen-wolf-reverse-bang-an-investment-in). As soon as I saw it, I really wanted to write for it, so go look at it! Like/reblog it! It's adorable!
> 
> Enjoy!

-

An Investment in Friendship

- _  
_

_If you would invest in a friendship, purchase a dog ~ Le Baron Cooke_

Chilled wind ruffles Isaac's auburn curls. The air around him hangs heavy with moisture, with advent rain. He huffs warm breaths against his stiff fingers, then enlists them to further wrap his black leather jacket around his wiry form.  
  
Beacon Hills may be in California, but there's no sun, sand or sea to speak of for miles. At night, though, a certain sense of _peace_ veils the small town. Only street lamps, distant household windows, and the rare passing cars blink light, irksome people safe inside their shelters. Even the wolves are quiet.  
  
Scott and Derek disagree about a lot of stuff – much of it stupid, if Isaac's completely honest – but they've both decided to gather more intelligence prior to egging the alpha pack on. Right now, Scott's probably at home, or perhaps working, whereas Derek and Peter are fighting again. Literally.  
  
Isaac traces a fingertip down the shell of one ear, where Derek had accidentally clipped him with thrown debris after Peter side-stepped at the last second. It's since healed, and didn't hurt very much to begin with, but Isaac's heart had been hammering like fists against a bolted door, Boyd and Erica were no longer around to huddle for safety with, and despite Derek's stoic apology, he'd decided it'd be best to get some fresh air.  
  
As he rounds the curb of a brick-laid supermarket, he hears an unfamiliar voice curse. He squints golden eyes at the empty sidewalk ahead of him, but no one, nothing, appears. A minute passes. Just when he's about to shrug it off and berate himself for being paranoid, another noise resounds – a whimper, this time, carried on wind from a short walk away.  
  
Isaac doesn't break out into a run so much as jog across the street, till he reaches the bend of another building. Surreptitiously, he glances beyond it, to a sparsely populated stretch of road. There are a few cars lining it, near potted trees, parking meters and street lamps.  
  
One such car, a sparkling silver BMW, has its door open. A large man looms beside it, over a small, white ball of fluff. Isaac squints and, dread stone-heavy in his belly, realizes it's a _puppy_ , quivering in the cold, yipping weakly.  
  
“I can't believe you needed a freaking walk at _one a.m._ ,” the guy grits out through clenched teeth. “Maybe when we get home, I'll chain you to the fence in the rain, huh? Won't be such a needy little shit then, will you?”  
  
Isaac feels a growl reverberate in his chest. His sensitive ears pick up a mire of foreboding sounds: the gnash of his elongated teeth, the brick crumbling beneath his claws, the proximate man's angry, ever-rising heartbeat and, of course, the puppy's whines.  
  
The man draws his leg rearward to kick and the world slows. Isaac hears himself shout “No!” before they slam bodily into one another. Bones creak. The puppy attempts to scamper out of their warpath, stumbles over its tiny paws, and pinwheels into a nearby tree-pot.  
  
A moment of dazed silence ticks by, before the guy exclaims, “What the hell are you doing!?” He starts to struggle against Isaac's grip.  
  
In response, Isaac's nails snag into the material of his seersucker, cotton suit jacket, to keep him prone, but it's difficult. Although Isaac's taller, the man is heavyset to his slender. Hot breath, thick with the saccharine stench of alcohol, hits Isaac's face like factory smog – putrid, pungent, familiar because his father used to drink, too, during the worst of it.  
  
Isaac smirks to swallow back bile and says, “Thought you'd have more fun picking on someone your own size.” He waits a beat, watches the man's many jowls drop, then drawls, “What, was I wrong?” in an exaggeratedly innocuous tone.  
  
“This is about the freaking _dog_?” Meaty hands shove at his chest. Fists flurry to hit him when he doesn't relent.  
  
He growls at the transient pain, angles himself closer, and slams its inflicter harder into concrete, relishing in his cry. Even as he smirks, however, Isaac feels his jaw grow heavier, and the clothes in his grasp start to tear. His eyes are about to flash yellow and–  
  
–and manic, mirthful laughter bubbles its way out of his lips. He could kill this man, who stares at him with such fear, who would have mercilessly injured a helpless animal, without any remorse himself, but would that make them the same?  
  
Before Isaac can ascertain the answer, his pupils are assaulted by an onslaught of blinding light, light from an oncoming police cruiser that bullets across the street. It forces him to turn his head, and the man below him takes advantage of his distraction to thrust him away. He lands on his haunches, palms braced before him, teeth bared.  
  
The patrol car swerves into an empty parking spot ahead of the BMW. Sheriff Stilinski throws its door open, leaps out, and demands, “What the _hell_ is going on here?”  
  
“This psycho,” the stocky man spits out, upon scrabbling into an upright position and pointing, “just attacked me outta nowhere, for no good reason! Arrest him, man!”  
  
“...Isaac?” the sheriff inquires, blinking.  
  
Beneath the weight of their scrutiny, Isaac swallows to wet his parched throat, but straightens himself out and juts his chin in a show of defiance. “It wasn't for nothing.”  
  
“What?” the sheriff asks.

Isaac ignores him to pivot around, stalk over to the potted plant nearest him, and kneel. The puppy's still inside, too small to have crawled out. When its dark gaze meets Isaac's, it's spurred to retreat till it hits the bark of the tree behind it. The smell of fear and hurt pervades, tart, from its frizzy white fur. Isaac screws his eyelids shut and, when they open, levels golden orbs at it. It stops squirming. He extends his palm for it to sniff.  
  
“Son?” Sheriff Stilinski probes again, tone gentle, as if he's soothing a wounded animal. If only he knew.  
  
Isaac gathers the puppy into his arms, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He wonders what the ramifications will be, if he breaks out into a run now. He'll get away, for sure, but he doesn't want to be a fugitive again – not if he isn't even suspected of murder, this time.  
  
He sucks in a deep breath, faces the two men, and says, “I didn't attack him for nothing. I had a good reason, sir.”  
  
“Uh huh...” Sheriff Stilinski cases the scene once more, a frown fixed to his usually kind face. “Maybe we should settle this at the station?”  
  
At the suggestion, the fat man begins to fidget from loafer-clad foot to foot. Even in the dim light of the street-lamps, Isaac spies a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, disappearing into his receding hairline. The smell of his nerves drifts off his corpulent body, stinking up the air around him.  
  
“You know what? Keep the damn dog, if you want it so bad! I've got work in the morning!” he says, staggering toward his BMW. Neither Isaac nor the sheriff stop him. A few minutes later, even the whir of his engine is too far away to perceive.  
  
Isaac emits an alleviated huff of breath and hitches the puppy higher, so its fore-paws poise against his chest. Before he can escape, however, Sheriff Stilinski calls after him, and he stills. “I'd still like to talk to you, kid, if that's okay? See how things are going?”  
  
“They're...good.” Isaac spares the vacant pavement ahead of him a wistful glower, but if running was a bad idea before, it's worse now. He has the sheriff's undivided attention. The best thing to do is return it. “Everything's good.”  
  
Sheriff Stilinski grins and says, “That's great,” but has already moved to open the rear-door of his cruiser. He stands there with its handle in his grasp, waiting.  
  
Isaac sighs and reluctantly enters. Inside, he shrugs off his jacket, wraps the puppy in it, and plops it in his lap, hand below the leather, fingers buried in its scruff, to absorb any residual pain it might feel. Meanwhile, he keeps his eyes trained on the front seat, at the back of Sheriff Stilinski's head, as the man situates himself.  
  
“Can we go to the vet?” Isaac inquires eventually. He and the sheriff lock eyes through the rear-view. “I, um, wanna make sure it's okay.”  
  
“Your puppy?” Sheriff Stilinski asks, and although it's not _his_ , technically, Isaac nods. He receives another in return as the car comes to life. Windshield wipers dash across the anterior glass, akin to hands on a speedy clock. “I can do that, but Isaac, you've gotta be straight with me, okay?”  
  
A mix of relief and suspicion courses through Isaac, but he relents with a muttered, “Fine.”  
  
If nothing else, at least he won't have to see the station again – and maybe, just maybe, he'll see _Scott_ , instead. Even in the slight chill of the night, the thought warms him, but then again, maybe the heater core of the patrol car has more to do with that.  
  
A smile tugs at Sheriff Stilinski's mouth. “How's school going, then? Did you get your report-card yet?”  
  
Isaac tenses up at the inquiry, but says, “Yes, sir.” It's the first time he's ever gotten a report-card that hasn't resulted in him spending a night or three in the basement freezer. Derek had merely quirked an eyebrow at him when he apprehensively volunteered it. “It was all right,” he adds, before the sheriff can press him, “but I'm not really smart or anything. Got a 'D' in chemistry and a 'C' in English.”  
  
“I'm sure that's not true,” replies Sheriff Stilinski, expression soft. “You, uh, you managed to break out of my holding cell, didn't you? And stayed uncaught till you turned yourself in, to boot.” Isaac snorts and doesn't mention Derek or Stiles's intervention, but does feel his lips quirk, unbidden. The sheriff grins outright. “Besides, you're a great lacrosse player, son. I'm sure you have a future in it, if you want one. Stiles, on the other hand...”  
  
“He's not so bad,” Isaac says with a laugh.  
  
After all, clumsy though he is, Stiles had won Beacon Hills the last game of the season. A tender look crosses Sheriff Stilinski's weathered face, and Isaac wonders if he's thinking about the game, too – about Jackson's 'death' and Stiles's brief disappearance.  
  
Whatever's running through the sheriff's head, he finally says, “You know, Isaac...if you ever need anything – a place to bunk for the night, food, maybe even some help studying, though Stiles is probably better suited for that than me – all you gotta do is call. You're not alone, kid.”  
  
“Erm.” Isaac bites his lip again. His fingers stop carding through the puppy's fur, and it licks the digits in rebuke, startling him. He drags his eyes to the fogged up window parallel the driver's side seat and mumbles, “We're, uh, we're almost at Doctor Deaton's. Can you let me out now?”  
  
Sheriff Stilinski frowns, but says, “So we are,” deaf to Isaac's question.  
  
He follows Isaac out of the cruiser once they park in front of the veterinary clinic, and Isaac withholds a sigh, but doesn't protest the hand that flattens against the small of his back. They enter the modest building together.  
  
Scott stands behind the mountain ash counter, a broom in hand, humming an unidentifiable tune under his breath. When the bells above the door jingle, however, he glances up and sputters, “I-Isaac? And Mr. Stilinski!”  
  
The sheriff inclines his head in greeting. “Scott.”  
  
“Um, what are you guys doing here?” Scott asks, just as Doctor Deaton steps out of his office.  
  
Isaac flicks his gaze between the two of them, then lopes forward to the counter and extends his armload over it, the puppy yet enmeshed in his jacket, only its head sticking out. After they notice it, clarity alights on their faces, but Isaac recounts the events that led up to his visit, anyway.  
  
“Could you check on it, just in case it's hurt?” he asks, ignoring the light brush of Scott's fingers against his wrists when they transfer the puppy between them.  
  
Doctor Deaton gifts him an amicable smile. “Of course, Isaac. We'll look after it for you.”  
  
He turns and enters his office once again, but Scott leans over the counter and whispers, “I'm glad you came,” so low that no one else can hear him.  
  
Isaac nods, and though the motion must appear curt, his cheeks redden. He takes a seat alongside Sheriff Stilinski, on one of the many plastic chairs the waiting room has to offer. He can feel the sheriff's eyes on him as he stares down at the tiled floor below his scuffed red _Converse_ – anywhere that won't inspire further interrogation. The tactic fails.  
  
“So, uh, you and Scott, huh? He's a good kid and a good friend,” says the sheriff, a pleased note to his tone. “He's been Stiles's forever and I think he'll be good for–”  
  
“You should go home to your son, sir. You don't have to stick around anymore,” Isaac interrupts, without looking up.  
  
For a few seconds, Sheriff Stilinski doesn't speak. At length, he says, “I want to.”  
  
His hand scoots toward Isaac, who considers flinching away – _really_ wants to, even – except by the time he comes to a decision, it's too late. It lands on the denim atop his knee to give him a pat and his throat abruptly tightens. Hands reaching out for him, especially adult male hands, don't often end well. Even Derek, who reminds Isaac of tough, brave Camden, his late older brother, subscribes to the brand of tough love Isaac's long overdosed on.  
  
He finally meets Sheriff Stilinski's warm blue eyes and attempts a smile. “Thank you, sir.”  
  
“Not a problem, kid,” responds the sheriff.  
  
They don't say anything after that. This time, to Isaac's great relief, the silence that reigns is companionable, untroubled by inane small talk until Scott reappears, Isaac's now empty jacket balled messily in his arms.  
  
Isaac stands at once. “Is it okay?”  
  
“ _She's_ just fine,” Scott says, a grin crooking his mouth. It yields into his usual smile as he continues his explanation. “She's a bit malnourished, and kinda bruised–” Here, Isaac thinks he sees a glint of amber overtake Scott's irises, “–but a night here should get her good as new.”  
  
Isaac almost returns Scott's beam, but recalls the sheriff's presence and clears his throat, skittering his gaze away from Scott. “That's, uh, good. I'm glad. Thanks,” he says, in a gruff imitation of Derek.  
  
Scott maneuvers out of the wooden counter that separates them and swerves around Isaac, until he's just behind him. Warmth radiates off his body as he drapes Isaac's jacket back along his shoulders and mouths, “It's no problem,” beside his ear.  
  
It, and the rest of Isaac's face, blushes dark. “Thanks,” he mumbles again, rearranging his arms into his sleeves, mostly to focus on something else.  
  
“Everything good?” Sheriff Stilinski cuts in. Scott answers in positive when Isaac doesn't. The sheriff brightens. “Great. Come on, son, I'll give you a lift home.”  
  
He waves off Isaac's, “Oh no, you don't need to do that, sir,” so they bid 'goodbye' to Scott and end up back inside the police cruiser.  
  
The closer they get to the Lahey house, where Isaac had told the California family court he'd be living after Sheriff Stilinski helped him get emancipated, the more restless Isaac becomes. He keeps his hands clasped in his lap, to hide their claws and shaking, while his foot taps on the gray carpet beneath it.  
  
“Remember,” the sheriff says, once they park in front of his house, “you can call me anytime, if you need anything.”  
  
“I will,” replies Isaac, before rushing out and hurrying up the walk to unlock his door.  
  
The patrol car doesn't leave till he stumbles inside, and he doesn't move deeper into the premises until he can no longer hear its motor. He's glad Sheriff Stilinski didn't trail him in. If he did, Isaac's secret would be out. He'd take one look at the police tape Isaac hadn't bothered to remove, the empty cabinets and refrigerator, the fine layer of dust on _everything_ , and know Isaac had lied about his address to the judge – to everyone.  
  
It's empty outside when Isaac skulks back into the moist air, so he can run at his fastest without alerting any innocent humans to anything suspicious. He relishes in the scant droplets of rain that whip into his face and keep him vigilant, all the way to the abandoned subway station.  
  
Peter isn't there. He can tell from the smell, and because his hackles don't rise on instinct, the way they tend to around the older Hale. Contrary to Scott's complaints, Derek doesn't trust Peter very much, and while Isaac knows his alpha won't allow Peter to hurt him, he can't help his own paranoia around the man.  
  
Derek must sense his entrance because he lopes out of the secluded section of the station that he calls his 'room', eyes narrowing at Isaac. Muscles bulge beneath his black, sleeveless tank top, but though he's as intimidating as ever, no anger lurks within his brusque, “Everything okay?”  
  
Isaac bites his lip. “'M fine,” he murmurs, wondering if Derek can smell Scott on him, or if the rain had washed him clean.  
  
It doesn't matter, anyway. Derek simply nods his head, says, “Good, get some sleep,” and sequesters himself into his room again.  
  
For awhile, Isaac stands frozen, gaping after him, before he remembers that Derek probably has a four a.m. run in the woods planned, and resolves to get some rest before it. The floor feels hard and cold beneath the blanket and bedsheets Derek had spared him, but then, it always does. He's asleep in two minutes, tops.  
  
Derek does, indeed, wake him up early for training, but after a few hours, he and Peter leave to do 'adult things', and Isaac returns to the subway station alone, hands stuck in the pockets of his striped blue hoodie. That morning, he'd decided against his jacket, since his pulse raced every time he saw it. He'd quickly grown tired of the glimpses that had garnered him: Derek's bemused, Peter's knowing.  
  
Halfway down the steps to the station, Scott's scent accosts him, and he pauses, heartbeat rabbit-swift in his ribcage again. Before he can mull over the repercussions of running away, Scott streaks into his line of sight, a cheery grin adorning his face. He holds a yellow blanket in his arms, the puppy inside it. It yips at Isaac.  
  
“She missed you,” Scott says, as if normal animals can relay feelings like that.  
  
Isaac doesn't protest when Scott proffers the antsy bundle to him. He plunks down, pretzel-legged, onto the ground to hold her better. She rises to her haunches to tuck her furry, ticklish little head under his chin, nose cold below his Adam's apple.  
  
Scott sits beside them, knees drawn up. “What are you gonna call her? She didn't come with a name-tag.”  
  
Isaac ponders this for a second, eyes locked on the puppy, then asks, “Do you remember that...other dog? What was his name?”  
  
“Oh!” Scott's brown eyes lighten like rain-drenched earth. He doesn't answer immediately, and Isaac worries that he's made a mistake by even suggesting it, but then Scott says, “Thor. His name was Thor.”  
  
“Thor,” Isaac repeats to himself, just to try it out. He knows Thor is a Norse god, but the Thor he's most intimate with is the _Marvel_ hero, whom he'd loved even prior to the new movie. Before their friendship disintegrated, Matt had introduced him to Thor's comics. He and Scott make eye-contact at last. “I like it.”  
  
Scott laughs and replies, “I think she does, too,” because the puppy barks. Her sandpaper tongue begins to lave Isaac's cheek. They don't talk for a moment. Isaac muses to himself that he wouldn't mind sitting this way, with Scott and the puppy, forever, but Scott soon straightens up, and he realizes it's a pipe dream. “I picked her up a toy,” Scott says, extracting a squeaky red ball from his jeans pocket.  
  
He seems so pleased that Isaac can't begrudge him the hyperactivity Stiles must have lent him, at least till he shifts behind Isaac and reaches the toy around his bicep. His chin perches on Isaac's shoulder, their cheeks aligned, and the fingers on one of his hands curl along Isaac's neck. If he hears Isaac's sharp intake of breath or feels the heat beneath his skin, Scott doesn't let on. The chew toy's squeak soon saturates the room.  
  
They remain this way, limbs interlaced, for longer than Isaac can track, but are forced to extricate themselves upon hearing the familiar rumble of Derek's Camaro in the distance. Scott extends a hand to Isaac, who gauges it warily, but ultimately accepts. A pink blush paints over the bridge of Scott's nose. Isaac furrows his eyebrows, but Scott's concurrent babble dissipates his bewilderment.  
  
“I'm really happy that you have someone else to care about you now,” Scott tells him, eyes gleaming in earnest, “but Isaac, I hope you know, whatever happens between the Beacon Hills packs, _I_ care about you, too. If you were the only member of Derek's pack, I'd join it in a heartbeat, dude.” And then he kisses Isaac. It's just a chaste touch of their lips. Scott pulls away before Isaac can properly react, grins, and says, “Gotta go before Derek catches me. I dunno if he'll go all papa wolf on my ass, but I don't really wanna wait and find out.”  
  
Isaac watches him leave, wide-eyed. He only breaks out of his reverie and brings a finger to his kiss-bruised mouth after Thor starts to squirm and bark. That's how Derek discovers him, Peter in tow. The two older men aim matching, arched eyebrows at him. For the first time, he can actually see their family resemblance, but he's too nervous about their reaction to dwell on such thoughts.  
  
“Can I keep her?” he eventually blurts out, arms wound tight around Thor's blanket.  
  
Derek narrows his eyes and doesn't reply, but Peter says, “Aw, come on, let the puppy have his puppy, nephew mine.”  
  
Derek and Isaac glare in tandem. Isaac thinks he imagines Thor doing the same. In the end, however, Derek must realize there are a few things - two things - Isaac will fight him for: Scott and this puppy. He sighs. “All right, but it's your responsibility. This place is already a piece of junk without animals getting underfoot.”  
  
A pithy rejoinder rests on the tip of Isaac's tongue. They're all animals, he wants to say, and Thor's a _she_ , not an it. What escapes, though, is a pleased laugh. “Thank you, Alpha!” he exclaims.  
  
Derek nods, and the four of them break apart like Isaac's lacrosse team after a huddle, two by two. Perhaps tomorrow, if Isaac tells Scott about the exchange, his perception of Derek will change, and they'll all be pack, after all.  
  
Thor cocks her head at his effervescent smile.

 

 

-

The End

-

**Author's Note:**

> Challenges always make me super nervous, but I hope this was a good read, worthy of [Ravyn_Ashling's](http://ravyn-ashling.livejournal.com/) art. Please let me know what you thought!


End file.
